Tom
by maidmasher
Summary: A man walks into a bar. His name is Mundungus Fletcher, and he has secrets for sale.


**A/N:** My first fanfic! Short, pointless, borne of procrastination. I own nothing.

**Tom**

So, a man walks into a bar, right.

That's the _what,_ and there's nothing so unusual about it. Men walk into bars all the time. Sometimes they're alone, sometimes they're not. Sometimes they've already been drinking, sometimes they haven't. Sometimes a good joke will follow them, sometimes it won't.

The point is, there are a lot of bars and a lot of men, and there are a lot of men walking into bars. They live in New York, Moscow, Johannesburg, and they play darts or chat or drink whisky and wine and beer.

These men are all the same, the way snowflakes are the same – identical yet utterly different.

The specifics are important.

The _who_ and the _where_ and the _why._

* * *

In this case, we can change the sentence so that it now reads: Mundungus Fletcher walks into the Leaky Cauldron.

There's nothing so unusual about that, either. Mundungus has been frequenting the pub for nearly twenty-five years, ever since he got banned from the Hog's Head. It soon transpired that Aberforth hadn't made a wise business decision in throwing Mundungus out, because when he left, the regulars left with him.

Mundungus knew how to attract a crowd. Still does.

That's the main reason Tom tolerates him. He's not particularly fond of his pub being used as a makeshift smugglers' cave, but he asks no questions and Mundungus give no answers, and there's no denying that he draws the punters in.

* * *

"Alright, Dung?"

"Alright, Tom?" Mundungus throws a galleon onto the bar. "Firewhisky for me. Ogden's if you please. Keep the change."

Tom eyes him. "Dung, this don't pay for a _fifth_ of what you owe me."

Mundungus shrugs. "Sorry, mate. Tough times and all that."

"Tough times! You got a different crowd in here each night, all desperate to see what you got to sell! C'mon Dung, thought I wouldn't notice?"

"What if ... " Mundungus says.

"Yes?"

"What if ... what if I can give you something better than money?"

"I'm listening," says Tom. "'S gonna have to be pretty goddamn special if you wanna pay off nine Galleons."

"Nine! I never owe you nine!"

Tom digs around under the bar, eventually coming up with a small piece of parchment full of writing. It's crumpled and obviously old, with some of the letters fading.

"Know what this is, Dung?" he says.

"I fink you're gonna tell me."

"This," he says, waving it just out of Mundungus' reach, "is a tab. A bar tab. A bar tab I started in 1983. A bar tab that has every tiny drink you ever got and never paid for on it. Says here – nine Galleons, three Sickles."

Mundungus says nothing for a moment. Then, he leans forward. "Fine. Nine Galleons. I bet I got somefink that might interest you."

"What?"

"Information."

* * *

Tom hesitates. He knows that Mundungus knows that he tries not to get involved with all the dealings that go on in his pub. Words spoken in hushed tones – Tom might listen but he will do so in a manner that makes him unnoticed. It has taken years of practice, and he no longer needs a cloak or a Disillusionment Charm; Tom can become invisible whilst remaining completely visible.

"You can take it or leave it, Tom. I think we both know that you got as much chance of seeing that money as the Granger girl got of persuading the 'ouse-elves to demand proper wages."

"She _what?_"

"Started 'er own organisation, she 'as. 'S called Stew or something. Spew. Tryna get them money and clothes and everyfink. 'Course, everyone else finks she's barmy."

"She never!"

"She 'as!"

"Anyway. I reckon you're right. I en't gonna see that money back for a while, but that don't mean I en't gonna try. In the meantime, do tell me what sorta stuff you might be ... paying me with."

* * *

"You 'eard of the Order of the Phoenix, Tom?" Mundungus says, quietly.

"'Course," Tom says. "You hear all sorts of stuff behind a bar. I been here during the last war. Wasn't sure if it was real or not, all you ever get are whispers."

"Well, 's true."

"And how'd you know?"

"I'm a member, innit."

Tom laughs. "_You?_ Blimey, whoever's in charge of that must be potty! Is it the Granger girl?"

"Very funny. Nah, it's Dumbledore. But," and Mundungus lowers his voice even more, so Tom has to lean in to hear what he's saying, "I can find stuff out. Whatever you want. I got knowledge."

Tom frowns. "What use is information to me? I said already, I can find out all sorts from just listening."

"Fine," says Mundungus. He holds up a suitcase which appears to be on the verge of falling apart. "I might 'ave some stuff in 'ere to interest you."

He unzips the suitcase, pulling out several packages wrapped in brown paper. He thrusts one at Tom.

"Goblets. Proper silver."

Tom unwraps the paper, folds it, puts it to one side and holds up a goblet. He turns it over. "Dung, where'd you get this?"

"You won't wanna know."

"Dung."

"It's ... it was Black's. Sirius'. Fifteenth-century. Goblin-wrought."

* * *

Tom looks at him and covers the goblets back up with the paper.

"What you playing at, Dung? 'S not stuff for kids. The Blacks might be gone, but only in name. You got Bellatrix, Narcissa, all manner of people you shouldn't be messing with. In case you don't remember, they're a family of crooks and liars."

"I resent that," says Mundungus. "As you very well know, I'm a crook and a liar. Take it from me, Tom, crooks are the most principled people you could 'ope to meet. Honour among thieves and all."

"The Blacks en't thieves. They're crooks alright, but not thieves. No honour at all, much as they'd like to pretend."

They sit in silence for a few moments before Tom says, "Sell that as quick as you can, Dung. Even without honour, the Blacks were powerful people, and I don't want any of their lot in here making things hard for me."

"How 'bout this?" says Mundungus.

He has unwrapped another package, and inside is a mirror.

"Not interested in a mirror," says Tom.

"'S not just a mirror. Two-way mirror. You can talk to ... 'oever's got the other one. Dunno 'oo it is, actually. Might be Remus, knowing Sirius."

"Sorry, Dung. Don't look like you got anything to interest me."

Mundungus shrugs. "Suit yourself. Might try Aberforth, 'eard rumours that 'e might be lookin' for somefink like this. If 'e's not still tryin' to kill me, that is."

* * *

Tom sighs and looks at the door. It's half-past six, which means people will start arriving soon. Some people are surprised that the pub's still doing so well, but Tom isn't. It's part of the reason he became a barman. Even if you aren't sure who to trust, isn't it better to surround yourself with people than hide away?

Hiding away didn't do the Potters much good, and if death were inevitable he'd much rather die in his pub surrounded by people, even if, alone, he could hold it off a little longer. Even if he could save the world. Then again, he supposes, perhaps that's a form of cowardice. He wasn't a Gryffindor. He doesn't want to be a hero.

The bar gradually fills up, full of people chatting and ... well ... not laughter, so much. There's still an undercurrent of worry, but at least it's being shared over a bottle of mead.

* * *

Mundungus has retreated – unsurprisingly – to the back corner, where he is surrounded by a few of his customers. He has sold most of the suitcase's contents, although Tom notices that the mirror remains untouched. Everyone who isn't buying from Mundungus gives him a wide berth. His clients are a little dingier than the rest of the pub, looking like they belong in Knockturn Alley rather than a well-lit inn.

That's probably where Mundungus feels most comfortable too.

* * *

The door opens, and Tom glances up to see who's there. He stops polishing glasses. There are two figures, both wearing cloaks, both wearing masks. They stand in the doorway, neither inside the pub nor outside it, and the night air blows in.

"Shut the bloody door," one man, sitting on the table nearest the door, says. When there is no response, he looks up and freezes. So too do his companions. The table next to them realise next, and so the silence spreads around the pub like a Chinese whisper.

The Death Eaters step inside and one raises his wand.

"_Avada Kedavra._"

* * *

The man falls, and the woman next to him whimpers. There is no other movement.

The other Death Eater laughs.

"I'd quite fancy some rum, wouldn't you, Dolohov?" She turns to Tom. "Two, if you please."

He begins to turn around and fetch it for her, but before he does, she takes off her mask. Bellatrix Lestrange. Something about this gesture, with its arrogance and obnoxiousness, makes him stop, and he faces her once more, adopting the stance he takes to make him unseen. She narrows her eyes at him.

"Do it."

He doesn't move.

"_Crucio._"

Tom's mask could not prepare him for this. He collapses onto the ground and his cries shock the customers in the pub who are so used to their cheerful barman.

And then, as suddenly as it began, the pain stops and he is looking at his ceiling.

Tom's first thought is _We really need to fix those cracks._

His second thought is _I don't think I've ever appreciated how good a solid wooden floor feels._

His third thought is interrupted, because a voice starts to speak. At first it sounds like an untuned radio and Tom must focus on nothing else before it arranges itself into a coherent sound.

"We don' want no more trouble," says Mundungus. "So why don' you clear orf before –"

"Oh look," says Bellatrix, "if it isn't Mundungus Fletcher protecting the Mudblood."

"We got no problems with you," says Mundungus, and Tom isn't sure if he agrees, because there's a dead body lying on the floor of his pub.

"I should hope not. We're doing you all a favour, cleansing this _filth_ from our world," says Bellatrix.

Mundungus raises his hands. "What if you get somefink better than cleansing filth?"

"What do you mean?" says Dolohov.

"Don't try and bargain with us," says Bellatrix, "you can't offer us anything that will be more highly regarded than the spilled blood of people like this."

"You sure, Bella?" says Mundungus. "I'm sure I can give you somefink."

"The boy ... " Bellatrix says, and Tom is sure she's talking about Harry Potter. It's no secret that Bellatrix would like nothing better than to bring him to You-Know-Who herself. "Dolohov! Wait in here, make sure no one escapes. I'll listen to Fletcher, and if he gives me something – worthy – perhaps we shall leave this sorry lot unharmed."

Dolohov doesn't look happy about this arrangement; Bellatrix will no doubt claim any credit. She must be his superior, though, for he nods. Bellatrix and Mundungus enter the private parlour behind the bar, Bellatrix's wand pointing at his back.

* * *

Tom is still lying on the floor. He sits up.

He gets up slowly and pours Dolohov a small glass of rum. He knows that it's probably not the right thing to do, but he might as well make this experience as pleasant as possible. Dolohov looks uncomfortable as well, almost naked without his companion. Tom hadn't known how stupid lone Death Eaters looked. He holds out the rum, and Dolohov takes it.

* * *

Tom wasn't a Gryffindor. He was a Hufflepuff.

Loyalty. Kindness. Not bravery.

He wouldn't treat anyone the way the Death Eaters do, but he'd do almost anything to avoid being treated that way.

He gives Dolohov another drink before pouring the rum into more glasses, placing a few at each table. He gives the dead man's friends doubles. They stay untouched, so he drinks one himself.

* * *

The pub sits in silence waiting for Mundungus and Bellatrix to return.

When they do so, Bellatrix is smiling. "We'll spare you this time, Tom. You're lucky your friend was able to save you. Most Mudbloods aren't so lucky." She licks her lips. "Come, Dolohov," she says.

They leave behind silence.

* * *

The Ministry must be alerted, and someone – from the Auror Office, apparently – volunteers to do that. People begin to shake Mundungus' hand in gratitude. Tom wonders what he had to tell Bellatrix to get her to leave. He isn't sure he wants to know. People walk around the pub trying their best to look busy and helpful, even though he can see that all they really want to do is leave.

He would let them, but the Auror said everyone would need to give a witness statement. Tom isn't certain anyone will be able to speak. No one apart from Mundungus has spoken since the Death Eaters entered the pub.

He suddenly needs to hum, to test out his voice. He is worried that it has left him entirely and permanently.

He got that feeling a lot during the First War. Sometimes, after he saw someone die, it would take him hours to recover speech. Even though he's a barman, and could, and does, spend his days listening to other people talking, it's still nice having a choice.

Tom became a barman long before the First Wizarding War. It was actually during the Second World War, which was better because at least everyone knew it was going on, but worse as well. He lost his voice for seventeen days after he read about Dresden in the papers.

His father said it was worth it.

* * *

The Auror has returned, bringing with him Kingsley Shacklebolt and four other wizards Tom doesn't recognise. Two cover the man's body and carry it out and two walk around the pub with Quick-Quote Quills, listening to people talking. Now that the talking has started, no one wants to stop.

"They jus' came in," says Mundungus. "Killed a man! 'Is body was lyin' there, no one knew what to do. Did the Cruciatus Curse on Tom, too, then I got Bella to leave, you know 'ow my mouth works when it 'as to, then they left. Simple as that! Tell you what, I never expected 'em to waltz into a place like the Leaky Cauldron. Could've sworn it was nearly as safe as 'Ogwarts."

No one except Tom is interested in what exactly Mundungus said to persuade the Death Eaters to leave. They're all far more interested in telling their own stories, even though, apart from Mundungus and Tom and the dead man and the dead man's companions, their stories are all the same.

* * *

So, a man walks into a bar, right.

* * *

When Tom gives his statement, he has a blanket around him and is holding a mug of tea. He is pleased to find that his voice hasn't left him. He doesn't say much. The only remaining people are the Ministry workers, Mundungus, and a reporter from the _Prophet_ who is being told off by Kingsley.

"How did you do it, Dung?" asks Tom once they have left too.

"Do what?"

"You know. Get rid of 'em."

"Gave 'em what you didn't want. Information. Said it would be useful, di'n't I?"

"You never!"

"I did. Might've given Bellatrix some of 'er heirlooms as well."

"But that's ... you ... you betrayed the Order!"

Mundungus looks at him. "Really, Tom, you got a low opinion of me. First I'm the same as the Blacks –"

"I never said that."

"And you think I'd betray me friends! I ain't a member of the Order for nought. I know I'm a coward, but I can keep me 'ead."

"So what did you say?"

"Well, can't tell you, can I? That'd be a betrayal."

Tom says nothing.

* * *

"Gave 'er some information about the Order. Members she wouldn't 'ave known before. Don' look at me like that, Tom. Did what I 'ad to do. Saved you, di'n't I? She weren't impressed, anyway, reckon Snape's already told 'em all that. Besides that weren't the only thing."

"Please tell me you en't done anything worse, Dung."

"Nah. Made up a prophecy, didn't I."

"Does the prophecy even exist?"

"Dunno. Maybe."

"She believed you?"

"She was all too 'appy to believe me. _The one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord approaches ... It will 'appen in a place the sun's rays never reach ... One will live and the other will die ... 'Is name will be spoken by generations to come ... _Complete bollocks. She loved it. Finks she's gonna get some great reward or somefink. God knows. As if a scrawny git like 'Arry 'as the power to beat 'im."

"You don't think he can, then."

"Oh, 'e'll try alright. Tell you what, though. If one of their wands is ever pointin' at me again, I'm off. Disapperatin'."

"Disapperating. Why didn't we think of that, Dung?"

"We was in a pressured environment. Not our faults, really."

"Blimey, Dung. I reckon you deserve a pint after that. A few pints. Whenever you want. On the house. Oh ... and ..."

He picks up Mundungus' tab and tears it in half. After all, what's nine Galleons between friends?

* * *

**A/N:** I kind of just divided it up however I wanted to. Anyway - reviews keep the world turning (and would be a great first fanfic present), so go go go! Lots of love, A xo


End file.
